


A Thousand Little Things

by AirplaneFoodBlackMarket



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Conversation During Sex, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Introvert!Hermione, Porn With Plot, Post-War, Some mild relationship-related insecurities are explored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 02:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17758427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirplaneFoodBlackMarket/pseuds/AirplaneFoodBlackMarket
Summary: Hermione Granger has a great life. She has a stellar career, wonderful friends, a cozy flat, and is highly regarded by nearly everyone around her. Yup, she has everything she needs. The fact that her last real romantic relationship ended less than satisfactorily, and that she has hardly given any effort to dating in the five years since, doesn't weigh on her at all. In fact, she barely even thinks of it! So when Harry Potter, who shedefinitelyhasn't secretly been pining after for nearly that long, asks her out, shedefinitelyisn't surprised. And shedefinitelyisn't worried about the rapid approach of Valentine's Day, either. And No, of course she doesn't have any insecurities to work through, thank you very much! Yup, there's just about two things Hermione knows: that everything is going to befine, just fine, and that there's really anyplace in the world she would rather be right now than this particular lingerie shop.





	A Thousand Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for The Harmony Shag-A-Thon, hosted by the Facebook group, Harmony & Co. All canon characters, plots, dialogue, and situations from the Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work. My heartfelt thanks to MrsRen, for being willing to read through this beforehand and help me out as a beta!

            A tiny bell rang out into the chilly February air as Hermione Granger pushed her way through the front door of the little shop in the middle of Muggle London. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and took off down the street at a good clip, a furtive glance cast behind her as she went. Hermione clutched the straps of her most recent purchase tight against her chest, trying to maintain as quick a pace as travel along the periodically icy sidewalk would allow without garnering too much attention. Despite the unseasonable cold keeping most of the city’s inhabitants off the streets, she still passed quite a few fellow last-minute shoppers, wrapped to the nines in warm coats and scarves and shambling off to some florist’s shop or chocolatier or another. For each one, her gaze lingered a few precious seconds on their passing visage, certain that prying eyes had wandered across her and the bright red package which cut such a sharp contrast to the dreary gray day as it swung from her arms.

            In the back of her mind, the part of her brain that couldn’t believe she was acting so paranoid over a simple shopping trip, Hermione knew that none of the strangers on the street would care who she was or where she was going or coming from. They certainly wouldn’t care to check the cursive gold writing on the little gift bag, or to notice the steadily creeping splash of crimson taking over her nose and cheeks, and not from the cold. They certainly wouldn’t wonder what such a nice girl as herself was doing out of such a street as this, visiting such a shop as that, and on such a day like today.

            It was no use. The hammering in her chest and the whispered questions in her mind drowned out those voices of reason, and in one swift motion she thrust open one flap of her parka. An icy blast of air hit her full on the chest and she seethed, silently cursing herself for not picking a store much closer to home. She unceremoniously stuffed the offending red bag under her coat and sealed herself up tight again, grit her teeth against the wind, and turned hastily down a side street.

            Hermione kept walking until the sounds of the busy outdoor shopping thoroughfare died down behind her, and soon, finding herself much more comfortably alone, she ducked into an empty alleyway between two silent brick tenements. There she finally stopped, and waited. Her breath drifted away from her in thick, lazy clouds and a light snow began to fall as she listened, her eyes on the street. Once a few seconds’ pause confirmed there was no one around to hear her, the witch exhaled, long and slow, before disappearing with a loud crack.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

            Hermione apparated directly into the entryway of her flat. She kicked her dripping boots off near the door and shrugged her parka off her shoulders, allowing it to crumple into a forlorn heap on the floor. Staring at the little red bag from the lingerie store, now in her hands, she groaned. Valentine’s Day had barely even begun, and already she was feeling defeated. Defeated by a holiday she had never paid any heed to but suddenly had every reason to care about. Defeated by the apprehension and indecision that had pushed this particular shopping trip to the very last minute and the extra strain and consternation that entailed. Defeated by the overzealous saleswoman who had fed example after example of extravagant, pricey undergarments to her over the changing stall door until Hermione felt compelled to purchase a matching set just so the woman wouldn’t be disappointed with her.

            The clock on her kitchen wall read three in the afternoon, and Hermione huffed as she glanced up at it. According to her meticulously-prepared schedule for the day, Harry was going to be around to pick her up in just a few short hours, and she was already well behind on her carefully planned getting-ready routine.

            One change out of her winter clothes and one shower that was entirely not warm enough and entirely not long enough later, Hermione stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, frowning. The discarded paper bag from earlier now lay crumpled on her bed underneath a very content Crookshanks, who had chosen the crinkly refuse as the perfect place for an afternoon nap. The ornate box that once lay within was similarly discarded, resting on the floor next to entirely too much tissue paper, and its contents now somewhat incredulously adorned Hermione Granger herself. Hermione sighed. Just as she had suspected from the very moment the notion had struck her, this had been a truly ridiculous purchase. The lacey black fabric clung to her body in the most unfamiliar way, and seemed almost impossibly sheer in places. She was struck by how very little material there actually was, considering the price, and by how very little the experience of trying the damned things on at home, at least compared to the cramped quarters of the changing rooms back at the shop, had changed her opinion of them.

            Hermione shook her head, internally chiding herself. This wasn’t supposed to be how her day was going. She tried to remember the line of thought that had led to her making such an uncharacteristic purchase in the first place. Of course it was going to feel unusual. After all, weren’t these garments meant for special occasions? Special occasions were supposed to emphasize the stark contrast from the normal, the everyday, the mundane, but also the familiar, the comforting, the safe. This was an adventure! An adventure in special occasions; occasions like her first ever Valentine’s Day spent entirely with Harry Potter. Harry, who had been her best friend since they were eleven. Harry, whose affections she had secretly sought after and quietly pined over for years since they had all put the war behind them. Harry, whom she had ached to surprise, to show off another side of herself, ever since he had deigned to ask her out not a few scant weeks ago.

            Her goal afresh in her mind, Hermione stared down her reflection and thrust out her chest, determined to show this piece of fabric just who was in charge. Regrettably, the sudden change only served to emphasize the odd angle at which her new bra held her breasts. All too soon, Hermione felt a tightness, as the offending garment rode up on her and the underwire support beneath the entirely-too-thin fabric started to pinch at the sensitive flesh underneath. Her shoulders slumped back down as she breathed another sigh.

            “Fuck.” She breathed, that creeping feeling of defeatedness beginning to sneak back up on her again. She didn’t really know who she was trying to fool. These things weren’t for her. In fact, if she were prodded, Hermione would have been hard pressed to think of something less _her_ than a brand-new silky black bra and matching knickers. Truthfully, there wasn’t much at all about Valentine’s Day that felt like her. She had spent the last five of them, at least since her and Ron’s poorly-timed and ill-fated postwar attempt at romance, cuddled by herself in her favorite armchair with a good book, and had been more than content each time. But this year, for Harry, she had wanted—Oh, how she had wanted—to make it special. She wanted desperately to give Harry something to remember, something burned into his memory. Harry, whose own brief attempt at postwar normalcy with Ginny Weasley had transitioned instead into, if the likes of _Witch Weekly_ were to be believed, a series of increasingly sordid affairs with several other skinny, well-toned professional Quidditch witches. Harry, who had consistently sworn to her that each of these was just a fling, a mere dalliance not meant to interfere with his Auror career. Harry, who would be here in—Hermione turned to check her bedside alarm clock—less than an hour.

            Returning her gaze to her reflection, Hermione sighed again, a third time in as many minutes. No, these things weren’t for her. These were things for other women, women who could stand in the mirror without endlessly questioning their decisions, women who could walk out of a lingerie store without worrying about every passerby that might have seen them and feeling the incessant need to hide, and most importantly women who looked like the witches Harry Potter was used to dating. Her hands travelled absentmindedly down the sides of her body, coming to a rest where the knickers hugged her hips. She groaned; her narrow, barely there, nothing-to-write-home-about hips. She hated thinking like this, hated _feeling_ like this, and usually was pretty successful at avoiding the dangerous mixture of vanity and introspection that inevitably accompanied her getting too familiar with her own body. But her mind lingered on thoughts of all those hot, lithe Quidditch players Harry had bounced to an fro for a few weeks at a time, and all the attendant supposedly scandalous moving pictures on all the glossy magazine covers she had spent five years trying desperately to avoid looking at. Slowly, as if guided by a mind not her own, first her eyes and then her hands travelled to every part of her body that Hermione hated.

            Palms reached back behind her and clutched at the raised profile of her arse. As she turned, craning her neck to see herself from behind, she lifted both cheeks up off her thighs and let them fall. One, two, three… and then several too many bounces for them to go still again, and plenty of jiggling along the way. She groaned. Fingertips traced the outline of her waist and stalled briefly to poke at her tummy; soft, not something she generally paid any heed to, but squishy, and certainly jiggly too. They continued their path, slowly tracing the curve of breasts which had always sagged far too much for her liking—and still, despite the best efforts of her new bra. She stilled her hands at the tip of the scar. A last remnant of her ill-fated brush with Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries so many years ago, it sat like a deep, gray-purple stain right in the cleft of her chest. Spider-like tendrils even threatened her neck. Of all the marks on her body, the errant nicks and the scrapes that had never quite healed right and even the deeper cut at the base of her neck from Bellatrix’s knife, which she felt an odd sort of pride over, this was the one she strove to keep hidden. The baggy contours and high necklines of her favorite jumpers and sweaters served a dual purpose, allowing her to go about her days without the constant visual reminder of the depths of war.

            Hermione drew in a long breath, exhaled deeply, and closed her eyes. It was no use. She didn’t feel like the girls Harry had been known to date, and she certainly didn’t look like them. She looked like… well, she looked rather like someone who had spent the last five Valentine’s Days cuddled up on her favorite armchair with a good book, and who had spent plenty of the rest of her free time there as well. And she was fine with that—on any normal, non-fancy, non-stressful day at least—she was fine with that. She was just Hermione, and that suited her perfectly well on a normal day, thank you very much. But just Hermione couldn’t imagine what Harry Potter saw in her. Harry, who had wordlessly watched her struggle in her attempts at romantic relationships for years, before she finally all but gave up on them. Harry, who could probably have any witch in the known wizarding world if he so chose. Harry, who she secretly suspected had started dating her out of pity, a kind of gentlemanly sense of not wanting his closest friend to feel so perfectly alone forever.

            “Of all the stupid, bloody, rotten holidays…” she grumbled, trailing off as she finally detached herself from the mirror and flopped backwards onto the bed, startling Crookshanks in the process. She could’ve cursed herself for already having voided the return policy on her stupid and impractical and decidedly un-Hermione-like underwear.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

            “Hermione? Are you feeling alright?”

            Hermione blinked, looking up from her plate to meet a pair of bright green eyes flecked with concern. She forced a smile and held his gaze as best she could. “I’m feeling positively lovely. Thank you again for bringing me here.”

            Harry grinned at her, but his gaze seemed to narrow a bit, and Hermione felt like flinching. “You just seem a bit quiet over there, is all.”

            “Well, this is just…” Hermione faltered. From her place on the wall side of their table, she gestured over her date’s shoulder at the restaurant beyond. His eyes followed her hand, and she was almost relieved at the break in eye contact. Almost. “It’s a very nice place, Harry. You didn’t have to do so much.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Smartly dressed waiters bustled about between tables draped in rich, almost velvety, scarlet cloth. Typical restaurant lighting was absent, she could only assume for the holiday, allowing tabletop candles to lend their warmth and intimacy to the atmosphere. Even higher above, draped among the rafters of the deceptively lofty building, strings of fairy lights in white, pink, and gold appeared to twinkle like so many multicolored stars. The effect, whether a trick of the light or the eye, was so convincing Hermione would have believed it to be a magical treatment had she not known better the capabilities of the muggle establishment. It was, indeed, a very nice place. The only untruthful part of her statement happened to be the implication that their surroundings were at all what she had been focused on.

            Harry chuckled, turning back to her after a sweeping glance around the restaurant. “Not too fancy, I hope. I remember you were pretty adamant I not take you anywhere Black Tie.”

            Hermione blushed, returning her gaze to her plate. “I wasn’t _adamant_.”

            “You practically grimaced when I suggested it. I think you might’ve stuck your tongue out.” His grin was back. “I’d never seen that before. I was floored!”

            “I just didn’t want to have to wear a dress.” She muttered.

            “Hey, I’m not complaining.” His fingers drummed the table. “I just thought it was funny. You had such a strong reaction.”

            “As far as I’m concerned, there are more than enough required Ministry functions every year where I have to attend in formalwear.”

            “You know, I seem to recall attending all those events.” She gave him a quizzical look. He smirked. “You’ve been stunning at every single one.”

            She grimaced. “And a full-page spread of me in the centerfold of _Witch Weekly_ every time.”

            The corners of Harry’s mouth tugged down. The unspoken truth of their dining in a muggle restaurant hung in the air between them. Even the _Daily Prophet_ had had a field day weeks ago when word got out that the pair of them—not only two of the oft-touted Saviors of the Wizarding World, but influential and highly-regarded Ministry employees in their own right—had started dating, let alone the more nakedly tabloid elements of the wizard press. The furor had lasted well over a week, culminating in a series of lurid articles targeting Hermione, invented from whole cloth and heavy on speculation over their sex life, that left her taking multiple sick days out from work and Harry threatening a pair of gossip columnists to within an inch of their lives. Although the harassment had died down in the time since, the pair had silently agreed to take most of their dates in Muggle London, away from the prying eyes of an adoring wizard public.

            “I’m sorry.” Over the table, Harry reached out and gripped her forefingers tightly in his own, rubbing the back of his own neck with his free hand. “I know how you feel about them.”

            “And being on display.” She added, and shrugged. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I wish I hadn’t brought it up.”

            Harry smiled. “You’ve nothing to apologize for either, you know that?”

            “We’re at an impasse, then.”

            “Utterly blameless.”

            Hermione’s gaze fell back to the plate before her. Harry’s thumb began to trace lazy circles against the skin of her palm. Absently, she picked up her fork with her free hand and began to push her now slightly cold ravioli around the plate. “You’re wrong, you know.”

            Harry’s eyebrow piqued up. “What’s that?”

            “You’ve seen me gag and stick my tongue out before. It’s not that unusual.”

            Harry blinked. “You’re still on that?”

            “I just thought of it.” She spoke more as if to her food and less to him.

            “I was only teasing.”

            “I know.” Her fork scraped against the plate.

            “Hermione, I…” He looked down. “You know you’ve barely touched your food.” She didn’t respond. “Do you want some of my chicken? There’s not a lot left, but it was very good. You can have it.”

            She sighed. “No thank you, Harry.”

            “Do you want to order some dessert? I’ve heard this place makes a really good cheesecake.”

            She made a face that she hoped he didn’t see. “I’m really not all that hungry.”

            The slow ministrations of his thumb against her palm suddenly stopped. His fingers left her hand but not a moment later found her chin. Gently, he lifted her head until her face was brought back into his eyesight once more. The concern was back. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

            Inside, she wanted to scream. She stiffened under his gaze and wanted to scream at herself to move, to say something, to laugh it off, anything to salvage the rapidly accelerating train wreck she could feel this date becoming. She wished he would stop looking at her like that, like she were something transient and if he didn’t hold onto her she would disappear. “I’m alright.”

            “Because if you’re not feeling well, there’s no reason we have to stay here.”

            Hermione swallowed, hoping to quell the rising feeling of panic in her throat. “I swear I’m alright, Harry.” She spoke slowly. “It’s sweet of you to worry about me.”

            “I think that ship sailed about twelve years ago.”

            “Pardon?”

            “Worrying about you. That’s—oh, hold on—” Harry’s hand fell away from her face and Hermione was forced to break eye contact, both of them drawn to the source of a sudden interruption.

            “More wine for the Gentleman? And for…” A waiter, having just appeared out of seemingly nowhere holding a rather dusty-looking wine bottle deftly aloft, glanced down at her wine glass, still full since—Hermione blinked. She couldn’t remember when it had last been filled. She simply hadn’t touched it. “Madame? No?”

            “I think I’ll pass, thank you.” Harry answered quickly, and Hermione was grateful for the opportunity to say nothing. “I will take the bill though, if you please.”

            “Very well, Sir.” The interloper turned smartly and strode away. Hermione waited until she was sure he was well out of earshot before speaking.

            “Harry,” she hissed, “you didn’t have to—“

            “Hermione, please.” Harry faltered and looked at her, eyes offering a silent apology for having interrupted her and willing her to continue. She didn’t. “I can tell when you’re, I mean, I know you pretty well, and I can see you’re uncomfortable.”

            “You know me pretty well.” It was a question, but she offered it softly, a bit deadpan, like it was a statement she wanted him to confirm. Inside her, a war raged.

            “Better than most.”

            “I’m not feeling _that_ uncomfortable,” she muttered.

            “Still, I’d prefer you not try to tough it out on my account.” He smiled and squeezed her hand, and she immediately felt worse. “There’s really no need.”

            A moment passed in heart-rending silence as Hermione’s nerves began to gain the upper hand in their battle to convince her she was ruining this, that he was probably going to leave her afterward, and that he wouldn’t fancy her anymore after that—not that he really did to begin with, anyway. Curiously, though, his hand never left hers.

            “You’ve just been awfully quiet,” he said softly, “and I can appreciate if you aren’t feeling very hungry, but I thought we might go for a walk instead. You know, fresh air? Clear our heads? The river’s not far from here, and it might be easier for us to talk. No waiters to sneak up on us like that.”

            Almost as if summoned by his mere mention, their waiter returned with the bill while Harry spoke. Harry accepted it with his free hand and, before Hermione could object to insist she pay for her half, winked at her, set it down, and fished a slightly rumpled hundred-pound note out of his pocket and left it on the table. He stood, and the slight tug of his extended hand compelled her to join him. A wellspring of guilt erupted in her heart, and she glanced down at her not even half-eaten main course.

            He squeezed her hand again and, as if using Legilimency, sought to reassure her. “It’s no trouble. I’ll eat whatever you don’t want; you can box it up. I’ll go get our coats.” He leaned across the table and kissed her cheek as he left, and Hermione felt her face flush. She sighed and reached for a box, lobster ravioli wasn’t exactly the cheapest item on the menu, after all.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

            The next few minutes found the pair on the street, errant snowflakes dancing lazily around them only to collect as dust on the cobbles, ready to drift away again on the slightest breeze. She watched as little drifts stacked up and blew apart again, her eyes never straying far from her feet as they walked, side by side, the cheerful light and hubbub of the restaurant fading behind them. The silence that passed between them might have been aptly described as companionable were it not for the knots she felt sure her heart was twisted into. A shiver raced through her, and the next moment she felt a hand brush against her arm.

            “Let me help you with that.” Harry held both hands out in front of them, cupped as if gathering water at a stream, and as she watched a small tongue of blue flame flickered to life just above the palms of his gloves. Her eyes grew wide as memories of long winter months in the Forest of Dean, of her and Harry huddled around a jar of the very same fire, of Godric’s Hollow and the tent and the creeping notion she never dared act upon—that the kind of warmth she craved could never be held in a jar, could in fact only come from him and his arms braced around her as she slept—swept through her, unbidden. “Familiar?” Harry asked, and Hermione wondered if he could ever possibly know just how much.

            “Harry,” she finally stammered after a breathless few moments, “wandless magic… muggles… you shouldn’t—“

            “I know, I know.” He chuckled, and in an instant, the flames were gone again. “They’re not as good as yours, but I just… I’ve been practicing. Some missions get lonely and cold and… honestly it’s just a useful spell to have.” He smiled at her. “They remind me of you.”

            Hermione could no longer tell if the warmth she felt spread across her face was from the momentary presence of the tiny blue flames or the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. She wanted to extend the same warmth to him, in her own words, but the beating heart lodged firmly in her throat threatened to turn everything she said into a garbled mess of broken words and phrases.

            Harry, to his credit, continued to speak without giving any indication that he had expected a response, something Hermione dared to hope was because he could still sense her ill-ease. “Besides… I guess nothing really beats the old-fashioned way of warming up.” He smirked, reached an arm across her shoulders, and pulled her against his side. A moment’s pause gave way to her seeking the curve of him with that of her own body. She melted into him. For a few relatively blissful moments, she closed her eyes and let his stride and his arm guide her. Despite the mere five inches he had on her, she felt impossibly small, snuggled against his side like a mouse seeking to burrow into a warm coat pocket.

            She remained that way until the weight of all the things she had wanted to say became too great. When she opened her eyes again she found he had steered them to a path along the Thames, the river murky black and reflecting the shimmering lights of all of London in the night. Despite the cold, several other couples had found their way out onto its banks, some meandering along with clasped hands and some, like her and Harry, held closer together. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more… present, with you this evening.” She fidgeted in his embrace and he squeezed her shoulder.

            “Hermione, you have nothing to apologize for.”

            “But I want to,” she asserted, “you had this whole evening planned and I went and got… well…”

            Harry laughed. “All hot and bothered?”

            Hermione blanched. “Harry! I’m being serious!”

            His face changed expression on a dime, turning somber. “So am I. Nervous, you meant, right? It’s okay. There’s nothing in the world that would have kept me at that restaurant once I figured it out.” Emerald eyes smiled at her from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “It just took me a while. You’re a bit hard to read sometimes.”

            “You worry about me.”

            “Yeah.” He squeezed her shoulder again.

            “You said that ship sailed a long time ago.”

            “About twelve years now.”

            “You meant—“

            “That’s a ship that sailed with a bathroom and a Mountain Troll, yeah.” He glanced down and away, towards the river. “I didn’t want to mention that inside.”

            Despite herself, Hermione felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. Her heart was beating at about a mile a minute. “You and Ronald, I swear. You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

            “Hey, with the sheer number of times you’ve saved our collective lives, we need something to hold onto.”

            “I should remind you there’s only one of us still out hunting down rogue, underground Death Eaters and otherwise risking his life on a regular basis.”

            “And you do?”

            “Hm?”

            “Worry? About me?”

            Hermione became quiet again, and she answered him softly. “I try not to.”

            “But…?”

            “Yes. All the time.”

            It was Harry’s turn to fall silent, and they continued that way for a stretch, allowing the lights of the city, and the sounds of the river and the happy couples nearby, and the breath of wind carrying the promise of the last gasp of winter, to pass through them. Being tucked into the crook of his shoulder, as Hermione was, afforded her the perfect position from which to rest her head against him—and she did, her curls just brushing up against the base of his neck. She savored the warmth of him. Moments, Hermione decided, were rarely, if ever, so perfect.

            Of course, in her experience, moments that were rarely ever so perfect also rarely, if ever, went unruined. Eyes closed, she felt as much as heard Harry clear his throat. “Hermione… I’ve been thinking, I should—“

            He didn’t get the chance to finish his thought. In that moment, from just behind them, a brilliant white flash lit up the night, accompanied by a pop of sound and a lingering sizzle. Hermione sensed, rather than saw, Harry’s response. Reflexes, borne in the depths of the war and their days at Hogwarts and honed in his time at the Auror Academy, kicked in suddenly. He spun around and Hermione, still caught in the crook of his shoulder, went with him. She stumbled away from him and flailed for a moment before finally catching her balance, looking back up from the ground in just enough time to catch a face full of the next flash.

            “ ’Arry Potter, thought I recognized ya, and I’ve never been more happy to be right!” Hermione caught a glimpse of a grin full of poorly kept teeth behind a large, distinctly old-looking wizarding camera before she threw her arms in front of her face in a cross.

            “Who are you and what do you want?” Harry’s initial wave of shocked befuddlement was rapidly giving way to anger; she could hear it.

            “Oh, come now, Mr. Potter!” The man kept snapping pictures as Hermione held her arms firmly in place. “Ya couldn’t think of going out on the town wit’ your bird, on this night of all nights, wit’out some people bein’ interested!”

            “I had a hope.” Harry’s voice was dry, icy.

            The intruder, she imagined some might say to his credit, didn’t seem to notice or care. “I know a number of publications that’d pay a pretty Knut for pictures of our world’s premiere couple.”

            Hermione grimaced, and she felt her cheeks burn. Every nerve in her body felt on high alert, screaming at her to simply turn tail and run, but the presence of the man beside her kept her rooted in place. Dimly, she was aware of a gathering group of muggle couples—formerly their fellow walkers—beginning to congregate nearby, undoubtedly trying to determine what unfortunate pair of minor celebrities they couldn’t recognize had been caught out on the river walk on Valentine’s Day.

            “I think it’s time for you to leave.” Harry’s rage was almost palpable, simmering and crackling in the air like static electricity. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught the flick of his wrist and saw the tip of his wand appear from within his sleeve. Her eyes swept over the faces of several bemused onlookers and her heart leapt into her throat. “Exp—“

            “Harry, no!” She hissed, throwing her arms down and grabbing his hand before he could bring the wand to bear. Something about the way his stunned eyes refocused on her, and the hush that fell over the assembled muggles and the thudding sound of her own heartbeat in her ears that replaced it, swept over her. She prickled under the sensation of dozens of eyes burning holes into them, and some distant part of her brain—the part that was convinced she had just prevented a major magical exposure—warned that people would expect a reason for her jumping in front of him and grabbing his hands, and that was when she kissed him.

            Truthfully, Hermione wanted nothing more than to just disappear. Moreover, she wanted to simply melt into Harry and become absorbed by him, leaving the gaze of others behind and allowing him to stand in her stead, weathering their impromptu audience for the both of them. Kissing him may have been the closest she could come to achieving this, and the art of losing herself seemed just within her grasp when the notion that this was exactly what at least one onlooker wanted brought cold reality roaring back into sharp relief.

            “Now that’s wha’ I’m talkin’ about!” Another flash broke the two of them apart, and Hermione scrambled for real estate behind her Auror. “Come on, Love, won’t you give us a nice smile? I can see this sequence on the front page of every—hrk!”

            Harry Potter grabbed the camera with his free hand and wrenched it forward, immediately bringing the neck strap into sharp tension across their accoster’s throat. “That’s. Quite. Enough.” She heard him spit each word, and saw the flash of fear in the photographer’s eyes just before Harry yanked the camera the rest of the way off, strap sliding over the other man’s head, and hurled it out over the riverside wall. It landed with a satisfying splash.

            “Harry,” Hermione breathed, “Let’s just go.”

            “Couldn’t agree more.” Without further fanfare, the pair took off past the silent crowd, hand-in-hand, Hermione scouring the rows of buildings ahead of them for a suitably secluded apparition spot.

            “You’re gonna hafta pay for that!” A stunned retort followed them.

            “Bill it to the Ministry.” Harry bit back, not even bothering to turn his head.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*

            Hermione was still clinging to his arm when they sidelong apparated back into her flat entryway, and for a few moments she felt no need to let go. In fact, she was fairly certain that if he hadn’t been there, she would’ve had to find support against the wall, or simply slid down it and acquainted herself with the floor for a while. He certainly seemed to be supporting much of her weight already.

            “Hermione, I… I’m so sorry, I mean… tonight was supposed to be… different.”

            She was finding his side ever more pleasant to sink into by the minute. “S’not your fault.” She mumbled into the arm of his coat, unsure if he even heard her.

            Harry maneuvered them towards her kitchen and took a seat on a barstool. Reluctantly, she broke away from him. “I mean, what are the odds?”

            “The odds?”

            “Someone recognized me!” His hands flew to his forehead. “And not just someone, someone with a camera! A reporter! In Muggle London, after I planned this entire evening specifically to avoid… Fuck!”

            “Yeah.” She nodded, numbly, and removed her parka to let it drape over another stool.

            “And it’s not like he couldn’t, I don’t know, couldn’t just leave us alone?” Harry sighed, arms falling back to his sides. “I know… I know. They’re tenacious. And I’ve had a history with them and all. I just wanted the one night!”

            “We.” Hermione spoke before she could stop herself and winced.

            “Hm?”

            “We have a history with them.”

            Harry nodded. “You’re right, I remember. We were talking about that earlier.” He paused, as if waiting for her response, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Her swirling nerves were back. “I’m really sorry about tonight, Hermione.”

            “You keep saying that.” She started pacing the kitchen. “That you’re sorry.”

            “I am.”

            “But you shouldn’t be!” She was pacing faster now. “Not for my sake, anyway.”

            “Hermione?”

            “This has all been my fault, anyway. We left the restaurant because of me, we ran into _him_ because of me! I’ve had us on this path and if I hadn’t been so bloody—“

            “Hermione, stop!” She froze in the middle of her kitchen and looked up at him. His green eyes burned with worry again, and she could’ve kicked herself.

            “None of this is your fault.”

            “We left because of—“

            “We left because I wanted to. No other reason.” She wished she could believe him. “Hermione, is there something you’re not telling me?”

            She sighed, and when he stood up to approach her and lay a hand on her shoulder she didn’t object. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve just been too much in my own head today.”

            They were silent for a while before Harry spoke. “You know, if you think we’re moving too fast, that’s okay. We can slow down if you’re uncomfortable with all of this, I won’t feel bad. Valentine’s Day may have been too…” Hermione snapped to attention. “…ambitious.”

            “What?” She nearly jumped. “That’s not it at all! Harry, you don’t have to… what I mean to say is…” she trailed off, suddenly conscious of the fact that she didn’t know at all how to communicate to him the strange torrent of disparate emotions that had been swirling about her all day. She resumed her pacing, only distantly aware of Harry’s hand falling from her shoulder.

            “Hermione, are you alright?”

            Her hands grabbed two fistfuls of her own hair as she pirouetted to resume pacing the other direction. She could tell from his voice that the concern would be back but she didn’t meet his eyes to confirm. “I just wanted to surprise you!” She finally blurted.

            “What?”

            The dam broke. Hermione felt her nerves get the better of her, and the whole day’s worth of discomfort and disappointment and self-blame flooded through her. Then, before she was even fully cognizant of what she was doing, her hands had left her head and were working furiously at the buttons of her blouse, and then she was shimmying out of the sleeves and the shirt was being flung off into the air, forgotten, and then she was standing in front of Harry in just her bra, and she hardly even took the time to notice.

            “It’s this thing!” She gestured wildly at her own breasts and panted, suddenly—incredibly—out of breath, staring at him, willing him to understand.

            “buh…” Harry had gone slack jawed; she huffed.

            “I had this idea, and it was supposed to be _perfect_ , and I just couldn’t pull it off, and I feel so _ridiculous_ even talking about this, and…” she trailed off and let her arms fall beside her hips, almost seeming to deflate. “And it was supposed to be a surprise.” She finished, quietly.

            Harry, to his credit, seemed to regain some composure. He raised a hand to rub absently behind his neck, his eyes making a point of flicking everywhere around the kitchen. “Well, I mean, it certainly is a surprise.”

            “Harry, please. I know what you’re trying to do. Please don’t try to make me feel better.”

            “No, I’m serious… I was trying to think earlier what might’ve been on your mind and this… wasn’t one of my ideas.” His hands found his pockets, and Hermione could have sworn she saw them press outwards. “Has what’s been bothering you all night just been that? Your bra?”

            She crossed her arms under her chest. The action didn’t seem to escape his notice. “It sounds silly when you say it like that.”

            “So help me.”

            She sighed. “No, it hasn’t been that all night, or all day, really. That was just the first thing.”

            “The first thing.”

            “I bought them this morning. It… didn’t go well.” Hermione claimed a seat on one of her barstools, letting her elbows rest on the counter. “I was rushed and uncomfortable and… jumpy. I haven’t felt like myself, and I’ve been in my own head all day and I just feel so… so seen.”

            Across from where she sat, Harry approached the counter and leaned against it, dropping his head level with hers. “Seen how?”

            He wouldn’t meet anywhere but her eyes. Hermione was dimly aware that the space separating them, less than the width of her counter, was precious little. Unbidden, a blush crept back up upon her. “I don’t know. I couldn’t get comfortable in my own skin. I’m wearing these things, and it doesn’t feel like it’s me underneath them.”

            She paused and settled the suddenly all-too-oppressive weight of her head into her hands, palms cupping her chin, and Harry reached out to stroke her cheek. “I’m listening. You’re fine.”

            “There’s this feeling that everyone can see me, see what’s bothering me. It’s like I’m trying to be someone else, and failing, and everyone can see it. The saleswoman, people on the street, in the restaurant, everywhere, I’ve felt their eyes on me all day. Even though I know, logically, no one’s probably watching. I don’t know how to describe it.”

            Harry appeared lost in thought for a moment. “At the restaurant, you said something about being on display.”

            She nodded. “That’s part of it. I just… I hate the feeling of performing for everyone. I have this feeling of being watched from all around, and having to perform this… this poise, and perform, you know, sexiness, and all of these things I don’t feel, all for the benefit of people who don’t even know me.”

            Harry grimaced. “The photographer. And the magazines.”

            She tried to give him the most meaningful look possible. “Harry, everything I’ve done, everything we’ve done, if I could I would do it all again, the exact same. But I wish I could escape the treatment, the celebrity. I would have my career, and I would have you, and Ronald and Ginny and all our friends, and I wouldn’t feel so seen all the time.”

            “Hermione, I’m so sorry—“

            “Please don’t, Harry, this isn’t—“

            “My fault, I know, but listen.” He suddenly reached out and grasped her hand, removing it from where it rested against her cheek and clasping it between both of his. “If I had known… any of this, if I had suspected at all, I would have insisted we have a quiet night in, here or at Grimmauld Place. All that matters to me is spending the time with you.”

            Her blush threatened to completely overtake her face. “You’re too sweet to me.”

            “No. Not nearly enough.” He stood, and slid around the counter in a scant three powerful strides, left hand never leaving hers, until he stood directly behind her, his right finding her curls and twisting one around his finger. “How are you feeling now, here?”

            “OK,” almost instinctively, she leaned back, letting her head rest against his chest. The tone of him, the distinct whisper of hardened muscle behind the sheer fabric of his shirt, was not lost on her. She closed her eyes. “I feel like I’ve ruined your perfectly planned evening.”

            “Hermione, believe me,” his fingers traced lazy patterns in her hair, “you couldn’t ruin an evening spent with you if you tried.”

            Despite herself, she smiled and shook her head slightly. “You should know, you can’t just say things like that to a witch and expect her not to fall for you.”

            Harry chuckled. The hand in hers and the one in her hair and the solid strength of him behind her neck suddenly disappeared, and she felt as if she might fall before he caught both her shoulders. The tickle of breath met her ear and she shivered, his lips not even an inch from her. “That’s the idea.” She swore she could hear the grin in his voice, and then he kissed her, just beneath her earlobe, and…

            Oh—

            Hermione’s eyes flew open. His hands had left her shoulders and trailed slowly down her arms, brushing the frilly edges of her bra as they passed, tracing lazy paths to her elbows and back, and leaving every tiny hair on her arms standing on end in his wake. It hit her only in that moment, as if she had forgotten the events of only minutes prior, that she sat before him in such wispy dress. The sheer fabric over her curves must have left almost nothing to Harry’s imagination, and there could be no denying the effect it seemed to have on him.

            He peppered kisses across her cheek and along the side of her jawline. She threw her head back, giving him better access and implicitly willing him to continue, and his lips brushed down from her jaw onto her neck. Unbidden, a noise somewhere between a mewl and a breathy groan escaped her lips. Harry laughed against her skin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you so much.”

            She gasped, suddenly finding breath hard to come by. “Well you certainly—hahh… certainly did a good job of it.”

            He grinned. She could feel it in the outline of his lips against her neck. “Would you like me to stop?”

            She considered this—considered the lightness of his touch and the careful ministrations of his fingers against her arms and the rising heat in her belly and the swirling maelstrom of indecision and doubt and guilt that had plagued her all evening and was slowly giving way to the pile of electric mush that was her brain—and chewed her lower lip. “Harry James Potter, if you stop then I’ll…well, I don’t… I don’t really know what I’ll do.”

            "Kind of an empty threat then, isn’t it?”

            “I’ll scream.”

            He snickered. “I think that can be arranged, either way.”

            “You know what I—“

            “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.” Without even giving pause for her to think of another retort, he roared back with renewed vigor, lips brushing down onto her shoulder and fingers dancing off her arms to parts unknown. One set slid down onto her chest and over the silken fabric of her cups, fingertips tracing idle patterns into the swirls and rosettes in the lace. He dipped lower to drag them across one nipple, the sensitive nub hardening under his playful touch and straining against its enclosure. Her mouth fell open breathlessly. His other hand found her spine, traveling reverently up and down, rising and falling over each exposed ridge as she arched her back and leaned into him once more. Her head found refuge against his shoulder and she felt his arm tense, supporting her back even as his fingers continued to work against her breast.

            “Merlin, Harry.” She breathed, eyes transfixed on the ceiling as he continued his three-pronged assault.

            Her new position exposed more of her chest to his wandering lips. “Hey, Hermione…” He spoke slowly, punctuating every other word with a peck against her clavicle, “you wanna know something?”

            She panted, her brain having a hard time catching up to her mouth. “Hnah… Harry, you’re still… trying to talk to me… now?

            He lifted his head. “Only one thing better than hearing those little noises you keep making,” He leaned in to kiss at her cheek again, and she couldn’t help but provide him with another example. “And that’s hearing you try and think, out loud, around them.”

            “T-t… tease!” She stammered, the accusing tone she had been going for utterly absent as each of his hands found one of her breasts, pinching and rubbing at her nipples through the lace.

            “It’s just that you were so worried… that someone would see through you, see the source of this discomfort—“ He pinched again for emphasis, letting loose another choked gasp from her, “and no one was ever the wiser. Even I had no idea what you were hiding.”

            “You’ve always been pretty oblivious.” She offered, willing herself not to give him the satisfaction of turning completely to putty in his hands.

            “Fair,” he chuckled, and his hands continued to roam, on down to her belly where they danced achingly close to her waistband and the searing heat and pooling wetness that begged for attention from within. “But you know something else?” He continued, his voice barely a breathy whisper, “I’m glad nobody else really saw.”

            “Why’s that?” She squirmed, her thighs pressing up against one another, becoming slick with anticipation.

            “Because I have no intention of sharing you.”

            Simultaneously, one hand steadied her waist while the other dove, with a quick movement to undo her button, beneath the hem of her trousers and the waistband of her knickers. His mouth slid down and he nibbled right at the base of her neck just as his fingers found home amongst her slick folds. She threw her head back at the sudden electric jolt of _him_ against her clit, his thumb working in quick, tight circles around and against the nub. “Harry, Harry…” She momentarily lost control of her tongue, exalting his name to the heavens. Her leg began to jump, a kind of jittery thing, creating even more friction against the rapid movement of his hand.

            Harry snickered against her neck, the sensation vibrating through his teeth as he kept up his gentle pressure. She was certain, were it not for his other arm holding her securely in place, that she would have slid and fallen from her perch. “You’re so pretty when you lose control.” He mumbled, mouth still very much full of her.

            “You’re not—, I… Oh, _fuck_ , Harry…” she whined, her voice several octaves higher than she normally would’ve been comfortable with, but she didn’t care.

            The jolt in her leg increased as first one, then two fingers slid easily into her, darting quickly between her folds and pumping in and out with mounting speed as his thumb continued to flick across her clit. The sounds emanating from her—both wet ones of flesh against slippery flesh and the ones that broke from her throat as little squeaks and gasps and moans and repetitions of his name and all manner of obscenities—would have been enough to make her blush violently were her face not already flushed with heat and tingled crimson.

            “Harry, I—ahn… I’m gonna… huh—I can’t…”

            “Shhh…” He whispered against her skin, trailing kisses back up her neck and across her chin before stopping right at the corner of her mouth. “Just let go. You need this. You deserve this.”

            She fell silent as she came, her back spasming and arching so hard her bum nearly lifted from her seat. She fell into his one rigid arm, testing the strength she knew would never let her fall completely. His fingers curled into mischievous hooks inside her, milking the last surges of pleasure from her silken walls as she rode out her orgasm. Just as her throes felt ready to subside, the vibration of her thigh reached a fever pitch and, unbidden, a jolt shot through her leg and she kicked out, her foot colliding with a crack against the front face of her kitchen counter. Her eyes flew open and she fell unceremoniously back to the stool top, seething.

            Harry winced audibly. “Oh shit, Hermione…” He gingerly set her back upright, one powerful arm still around her waist while his other hand retreated from her knickers. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve moved us, shouldn’t have rushed into—“

            “It’s fine, it’s fine,” She stammered hastily between gulps of air, dreading the concern that laced his voice. “Bedroom… bedroom now.” She clambered down from her seat, but couldn’t hold back a twinge of displeasure as soon as any weight went to her right foot.

            “Easy, I’ve got you.” Harry was behind her immediately, one arm around her shoulders and one sweeping down to her legs. He lifted her into the air almost too easily, and she squeaked at the sudden change. “Bedroom, huh? I think that can be arranged.”

            Hermione squealed as he carried her across the open space of her flat towards the hall leading to her bedroom. It crossed her mind to beseech him to put her down that instant, but she thought better of it, and the words died on her lips. From her position tight across his chest, looking up at his face, his smile was infectious. She looped her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to his level, taking the chance to press her lips fervently against his. He returned her vigor in kind, and walked right into a wall. “Careful, Harry,” she teased, “That’s my bad leg.”

            “Well you shouldn’t distract me like that. Can’t see where I’m going with a pretty witch in the way.” He made no move to remove his face from hers.

            They stumbled, snogging and barely upright, through her bedroom door, a mess of limbs and wild, hand-tousled hair. She broke reluctantly away from him to scan about the room. “Oh, Crookshanks!” She frowned, spotting her pet still curled up, fast asleep, in the same spot she’d left him earlier. Deftly, she rolled out of his grasp and landed on her feet, the pain little more than a memory, and padded across the carpet to her bed. She reached down to stir her familiar from his rest and scoop him into her arms. “Come on, Crooks. Momma needs the room for tonight. Please understand.” The cat, upon being disturbed, let loose a growl of protest, as if to indicate pointedly that he did not, in fact, understand.

            She hustled Crookshanks out the door with minimal effort, hastily grabbing her discarded shopping bag out from under him as she went. Closing the door, she turned to find Harry had taken up a perch on the end of her bed. Leaning backwards, arms propping him up, one leg crossed over the other, and staring intently at her, he seemed the picture of nonchalance, but his eyes gave him away. They sparkled with something Hermione would have once called ‘mischief’, but which she was now finding herself unable to place. “Hi.” She breathed.

            “Hi.” He returned, a sweet lilt in his voice, and grinned.

            His eyes wouldn’t leave her. She found herself almost rooted to her spot near the door by his gaze. The warmth that coursed through her body from her core started to creep back into her face. “The knickers match!” She blurted, and immediately felt like hiding.

            The admission earned a laugh from Harry, and she blushed deeper. “I know. I could feel, I mean, from earlier.” To Hermione’s surprise, his own cheeks were starting to match hers. “They’re both a very similar… material.”

            “Would you… like to see them?”

            “Yeah.” He made a show of sitting forward, bringing his elbows to his knees and cupping his chin in his hands. The entire time his eyes never left hers. “But slowly.”

            She obliged, doing her best to swallow the tightness in her throat, and sauntered towards him, narrowing her eyes, putting on her best smirk, and swaying her hips a little as she went. She stopped between him and the full-length mirror, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her trousers. The button was still undone from earlier. The zipper came undone easily as she pushed, tortuously slow, the garment down her thighs, rolling her hips back and forth for good measure. His eyes drank her in as she worked, inching the pants past her knees, swaying rhythmically as she went. At the last moment, she turned as she bent all the way down, giving harry a full view of her arse and wiggling it to boot. She kicked them away and stood, arms out wide as if offering herself, resplendent in slightly askew bra and thoroughly soaked knickers, to him.

            “Hermione Granger.” He breathed, “Will wonders ever cease?”

            “Hush.” She swatted at him, but couldn’t hide her smile. It seemed to match his in intensity, and she beamed just from the way he looked at her. “There’s more.”

            She reached behind her back to the clasp of her bra, fumbling with it momentarily before the straps fell away. One hand flew up to steady the garment, and she crossed her arms over her chest, pinning the cups there and pressing the prominent cleft between her breasts into greater relief. She giggled at the change this aroused in him, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline, and gave herself a few extra squeezes for good measure before turning her back to him once more. One arm still across her tits, she pulled the remaining fabric from underneath and dangled it to her side before tossing it off into a corner of the room. She caught sight of him in the mirror, then, his gaze lingering on her thoroughly bare back, enraptured. She paused to watch his eyes, trailing up and down as they took her in. The sparkle, the thing she had been unable to place before, had returned. Hunger, she decided, some combination of intuition and realization sweeping over her; it was hunger that filled his eyes. Hunger for her.

            “Do you want me?” She whispered, addressing the Harry in the mirror.

            “More than anything.”

            She spun, and in the space of seconds was beside him. Protraction be damned, she stripped herself of her knickers and cast them into a corner nearly mid-stride. Her arm fell away from her chest and he reached out as if to grasp her, to touch her, but she stopped him. “I need to see you.” It almost seemed silly to her, the turn she had taken, but with just him it was alright; she wanted to be seen, and she wanted the same from him. With a grin, he obliged her—fumbling with his own shirt buttons, pulling the collar over his head, accepting her help with his trousers, lifting his arse for her as she slid them off—and then he was just there on her bed, a lopsided smile for her, cock standing at attention. “Lie back,” she said, touching three fingers lightly to his chest, and he did so.

            She went to join him, clambering onto the bed, her knees straddling his, crawling, moving above his body and toward his face, sliding her hands up his chest. She stopped there, hovering just above his head, hair dangling like a curtain around his face, isolating them, and that was when he reached for her again, grabbed for her, and she didn’t stop him. One hand found her cheek, cupping her in his palm, fingertips brushing just below her eye; the other fisted in her hair, drew her backward and up a bit, and her mouth fell open in time for him to capture it with his. He rose up off the bed slightly, slanted his mouth against hers, and then she was kissing him again, and of course they had snogged plenty before but never like _this_ , and the moan that escaped her mouth into his was entirely unplanned, unintentional, but she decided she kind of liked it like that and she knew he did too.

            She collapsed against him, chest falling onto his, her hands trapped, tits compressed in the most delicious way. His hands held her head firm, but not unpleasantly so, and he just kept kissing her, drinking her in. Need ached from her dripping mound, and she was conscious of the wet spot she was leaving on his waist but not of much else. She couldn’t see much of anything, uncertain if her eyes were closed or simply rolled up into her head. His tongue was driving her crazy, fervent, eager inside her mouth, worshipping her with slavish devotion. She strove to answer it, willing herself, commanding herself to respond in kind, and that was when his cock twitched against her thigh.

            With effort, her lips broke from his, leaving her gasping and flushed until she saw he was the same way, staring up at her. The hunger was back, though she was sure it had never left. She pushed against his chest, raised herself, fixed her knees so her hips hovered above his again. He let her go, arms falling to the bed, hands splayed above his own head. They were silent for a few precious seconds before she found her words. “I need you. I can’t wait any longer.”

            Hermione leaned back, taking the base of his cock in her hand, and steeled herself. It had been years since her last time but she was ready, oh so ready, had been since the moment he bit down on her throat in the kitchen. It was a clumsy thing, manipulating his penis beneath her while she couldn’t keep her eyes off his face, but she found home. He slid a few times against her, the juices on her lips slicking his head before she found her own entrance with it, and then he was inside her, just barely, and she had to struggle to concentrate. Her folds parted easily for him, and she bit her lip as she lowered herself, taking him slowly, allowing herself to feel every agonizing inch of him until she had slid down to his hilt.

            She paused for a moment, savoring him and the way he filled her, before she began to move again. She rolled her hips, panting, aching at the shift of him inside her, how every twinge of the muscles in her core sent different shocks of electric pleasure from her velvet inner walls. He moaned beneath her, and she squeezed in response, marveling at the way she could affect him. Finally she stilled, lifting her thighs. The bed depressed beneath her feet, sinking to accommodate the shift in her weight, and she rose to his tip and sank down again, faster this time. His hands found her hips as she built a steady rhythm, rising and falling, her slick walls creating a suction of their own, eager to keep him within.

            She kept up her movement, gyrating above him, until the silence, or at least the lack of any sound save the repeated smack of their bodies connecting and the little breathy grunts in the back of his throat, started to get to her. She frowned, reaching the top of her stroke, and sank back down slower than before. She settled at the bottom, taking a moment to steady her breathing. Harry, realizing she had stopped, stiffened his grip against her thighs and bucked up into her, trying to maintain the rhythm on his own. Hermione absorbed his thrust, but stilled a hand against his abdomen; his muscles warm against her fingertips.

            He melted beneath her.

            “Hermione…?” His voice seemed distant, and he shook his head, like he was coming out of a fog, trying to speak to her through the haze. In a way, she decided, he may very well have been.

            “When did it start?” She almost didn’t want to ask the question, but yearned to hear his answer, hear his voice, anything.

            “What?”

            “You want me.” She squeezed again, and he twitched inside her. She smiled, reveling in the feel of him just lying still, buried to the hilt in her cunt, the heat of him, the way he responded to every little move she made. “You said you wanted me, when did it start?”

            His head fell back and a deep exhale escaped him. “Merlin, Hermione. You, what, barely speak for half of dinner, and _now_ you want to talk?”

            She rocked her hips backward, pulling him along with her, and a groan rolled from deep within him. She swelled with an odd sense of pride and satisfaction, a feeling of power, almost electric, coursing through her at the way she could bend him to her will. “I’d just like to understand.”

            “You can’t—“ He gasped, shaking his head. “You can’t expect me to remember… things when you’re like… like this.”

            “I can help jog your memory… If you want.” She flashed him a wicked grin and lifted herself as far as she could, and then dropped, hard. Her breath caught in her throat as she fell, his cock rushing back into her to reclaim its place. Beneath her, Harry moaned her name.

            “Are you… going to keep doing that?”

            She adored the way his breath hitched, thrilled to the fact that it was her doing it to him. “Do you want me to stop?”

            “Not on your life.” He groaned.

            A smirk fell across her features. She rose and fell again, but only about halfway. “Then you’d better start remembering.” Through her hand, the tension in his abs as she stilled on him again was palpable. She could feel him restraining himself from simply ending her teasing and thrusting up into her. The thought that he could so easily overpower her—could so easily flip her onto her back and piston into her with untamed abandon, utterly wreck her—yet held himself back, despite her antics, exhilarated her.

            “Hermione… Hermione, help me out.”

            “Was it at Hogwarts?” She asked, rising and falling again, “Did you want me when we were in school?” She grit her teeth, struggling to keep her breathing even and find her words while his dick filled her so completely.

            “There were… so many moments.” He sputtered, “So many… when I loved you.” She blushed, unable to find the right thing to say, and just kept punctuating his words by impaling herself. “I was terrified… when that snake got you… when you wouldn’t wake up.”

            “I know.” She dropped again, grabbed his hand, brought it to her breast as it bounced in time with her movements.

            “You solved that puzzle, first year… you were so brilliant… and you came with me… to save Sirius, and everywhere.”

            “I did. I did.” His other hand reached for her other breast. His palms were calloused, rough against her nipples. He squeezed both, almost too hard. Almost.

            “You were… you were so worried, about me… for the Triwizard Tournament… I loved you for that.”

            “I was.” Her mind was on fire, her pace quickening. She couldn’t manage more than a few words at a time. “I was terrified… never should’ve… doubted you.”

            “You were—are, are my best friend.” He panted, struggling to fit words around the sounds in the back of his throat. “I love you… I have loved you, every day.”

            “You love Ginny.” She couldn’t think, couldn’t stop the words from falling out, unbidden. Couldn’t stop herself from saying the quiet part out loud. “You love Ron… you love Luna, and… and Neville.” He pinched her nipples, hard. She threw her head back, a distorted cry escaping her lips. Her pumping reached a fever pitch. Her mind and knees were screaming at her. “You love everyone… everyone so much. What makes me different?”

            “I love… No. I’m… I’m in love with you.” He groaned, the thrusting of his hips now matching her own pace. “It feels… it feels different.”

            Her hand left his waist, found her own clit. She rubbed furiously against the swollen nub, electricity spiking through her core and racing up her spine. Sweat rolled rom her forehead, her sides, everywhere. She opened her mouth to answer him, willed herself to find something intelligent, something for him only, but no words came. Her jaw fell open, lips pierced by a silent cry, and she fell over the edge. Abs clenched, thighs quaking, knees finally giving out; she collapsed finally into him, burying him to the hilt. She shook there for a few moments, unable even to breathe. Incredibly, impossibly, he stilled himself again, grabbed her waist, held her upright while she rode out the crashing waves of her second orgasm that night.

            In time, she swam back into the light, blinked away the mist, and met his emerald eyes again. He stared up at her, glasses askew, enthralled. Between deep gasps of breath, she found her voice. “When… When did it change?”

            He smiled, lifting a hand from her waist, and brushed it across her cheek. It came away wet. “In the tent.” He said, stroking her, his eyes tender, warm. “I wanted you in the tent.”

            “You never said anything.” She found herself grateful for the sheen of sweat that coated both their bodies, unable to tell if her cheek was wet from that or tears. “Even when we danced.”

            “I couldn’t.” He smiled at her. “It happened so slowly, I couldn’t even tell. But looking back, the tent, that’s when it happened.”

            She was surprised at that, and bit her lip. “There was never a time, never a moment when it hit you?”

            He hesitated. She could see it in his face and even feel it in his body, his cock twitching inside her. “There was… there was one time.”

            Her eyes went wide. “When?”

            “I saw your back.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “It was just after Ron left, when we both stopped caring about everything for a while. You were changing, and you didn’t even draw the curtains.” His blush was furious. Hermione wanted to reach out and touch him. She fixed his glasses back in place. “You pulled off your shirt, and I saw your back. You weren’t wearing a bra, it was just you… bare, and I wanted to look away but I just couldn’t. You had these—“ He paused, rolling his head back and forth, as if straining to remember. “These marks, these scrapes and scratches, some of them scars and some fresh ones, just up and down your back. And I thought, in that moment, that those were all for me. I mean, they came from branches, and rocks, and whatever else cut you while we were on the run, and you were there because of me. You were hurt because of me.”

            Hermione could barely breathe. She cupped his cheek in her palm, mirroring his own hand on her face. “And that’s when you wanted me? Right there?”

            Harry nodded. “I wanted to go over to you. I wanted to hold you and to kiss you, to kiss every one of those marks on your back and every mark on the rest of you that I couldn’t see, and this…” Hermione’s heart caught in her throat when she felt his other hand move to her chest. It came to rest right between her breasts, palm covering the dark scar there, fingertips brushing her neck. “I knew it was there, but I didn’t see it until today. This is from—“

            “Dolohov, yes.” She breathed, thrilling to the tenderness with which he held her, the pain and the regret behind his eyes. “I told you. I would do it all the same. I would do everything the same, a hundred times, if it meant doing it with you.”

            “You’ve been hurt so much, because of me. So many have.”

            “I’ve been hurt _with_ you.” She stroked beneath his eye, and found he was wet there, too—for much the same reasons, she imagined. “Everything we did we did together, with you, not because of you.”

            “I know.” He sighed. “I know, but it was always you. You took so much of it.” So much hung between them, more than Dolohov, more than Malfoy Manor.

            “I didn’t, really. Not as much as others.” She smiled. “And Harry?” He piqued an eyebrow at her. “I love you, too. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier, when you said it, but it’s true. I have for a long time.”

            “It’s alright.” He grinned. “You were pretty indisposed.”

            She nodded, remembering, and then stopped. Her blush was back. “Harry, you didn’t cum, did you? Just then?”

            He shook his head. “That’s alright. I don’t need to—“

            She bent at the waist, falling onto his chest, and silenced him with a kiss. She stayed like that, moving her lips against his, for a delicious moment before she pulled back, his eyes questioning. “You will.” She smirked, resettling herself onto him. “I’m not finished with you yet, Mr. Potter. I need you more, inside me, now.”

            The next moment, as if a switch inside him had been flipped, Harry leapt to follow her command. Hands grasped the sides of both of her thighs, right below her hips, and strong arms lifted her from below. Her legs, spent, protested the strain of carrying her weight again, but when she relaxed into him she found he held her there of his own accord, his cock still halfway in her. Then, he thrust upward, hard and fast, her breath caught, and she squeaked. He smiled at the noise, winked at her, and then he was laying into her in earnest.

            Hermione’s mind went blank. Her swollen, bliss-addled folds almost cried out in near overstimulation as he fucked her. Harry achieved an almost frantic pace, hips lifting clear off the surface of the bed again and again, and grunted with the incredible apparent effort. She brought her hands up to her own chest and squeezed, grasping hard against her nipples. All manner of sounds fell from her lips, gasps and moans and profanities alike mixing and collapsing together into one long crescendo, a strangled cry, and she screamed his name.

            His focus never broke, the flared head of his dick sinking deep into her, almost impossibly deep, over and over again. Just when she started to think there was no way he could possibly keep going, his hands squeezed tight against her legs and he forced her down onto him. Simultaneously, he bucked his hips up one last time, burying himself even deeper than before, and then he erupted.

            Hermione felt his release flood into her, filling her with a delicious warmth she knew she could savor hundreds of times over if he would so let her. She stayed upright for as long as she could once his support fell away, but collapsed onto him nonetheless, chest to chest, face beside his, both their bodies spent while each struggled to breath next to the other’s ear.

            Time passed them by slowly as they held one another, chests rising and falling, working to find their stasis. Hermione became aware that he was still inside her, softening but not slipping out, and a smile crossed her mouth. She made no move to lift off of him, to remove him, deciding that she liked it better this way; liked having him where she could see him, feel him, pretend that she held him safe and ensconced within her and that she never had to let him go.

            “I didn’t think I deserved you.” He murmured, and she sat up, frowning.

            “What?”

            “In the tent, and for all those years after. That’s what you were going to ask next, right? Why I took so long to ask you out, to tell you the truth? I didn’t think I deserved you.” She blinked at him. “Who was I to deserve your loyalty? Who was I to deserve your love? Just a boy whose glasses you fixed once, on the train.”

            She didn’t really know what to say to him, so she kissed him instead, slowly, lazily. There would be time, she reasoned, to talk these things over, later. There would be time to convince him that he deserved her, that he deserved everything. Ahead of them, they had all the time they needed. For now, there was this moment, this moment of exhaustion, and of bliss.

            And moments, Hermione decided, were rarely, if ever, so perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! This is the first piece of writing I've shared publicly is a number of years, so I would appreciate any feedback you might have!


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